


ceiling of amber, pavement of pearl

by lisbei



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Immortals (2011)
Genre: But I like Joseph Morgan, Canon gets Greek Mythology so wrong, Don't Have to Know Canon, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisbei/pseuds/lisbei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In <i>Immortals</i>, the Greek gods walk the earth, and mad King Hyperion decides he's going to teach them a lesson. As well as kill every mortal who disagrees with him. And many mortals who agree with him. Did I mention that he's crazy? In retrospect, Lysander's decision to betray his fellow soldiers to join Hyperion's army is not the best he's ever taken. In my version of events, he decides he's had enough, and sets off home, or thereabouts, to die there. But Poseidon's been watching him, and has other, um, plans for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has seen _Immortals_ , they'll know that there's some graphic torture pictured - it'll be mentioned in the story, but not described in any great detail. For those who are triggered by mention of massacres, maybe this story is not for you.

_Poseidon leaned heavily on his trident as he let Zeus’s words wash over him, choosing instead to concentrate on the horrendous mess the mortals had made of things, far below, but not far enough that he couldn’t hear the screaming and the frantic prayers, which Zeus had now decided would not be answered. By what authority, he wanted to ask. Had Zeus forgotten that they were brothers? So Poseidon had chosen the guise of a young man, rather than his usual appearance as a venerable old man – that didn’t make him any less powerful, any less what he was. So he had a favourite among the mortals – Zeus had Theseus, and he had this confused young mortal who had chosen the wrong path. Maybe he could nudge Lysander back towards the right one (yes, towards your bed, Zeus would say spitefully). This Theseus and Hyperion business was Zeus’s problem, he decided. He, Poseidon, had been too long away from his real home – the sea. Its people were his business, and if he led one troubled soldier away from certain death on a whim, well, he was a god. He asked for no-one's permission._  


The sound of the waves hitting the shore and the smell of the sea woke Lysander from a fitful half-sleep, and he held his breath, cursing himself for having let down his guard, even for a few minutes.  


But no-one was in the small tent with him. No-one had taken advantage of his inattention, and slowly, his heart-rate returned to normal, and his fists unclenched. Now he was annoyed that something had disturbed the only rest he was likely to have for a while, and he wondered what it had been. Not the sea, of course. King Hyperion’s camp was too far inland for that. He must have been dreaming. It had seemed so real, though. He could almost taste the salt spray on his lips, feel the cool water on his face . . . no matter. He must have been woken by some noise in the camp. One of the many noises – a scream, the sounds of sobbing, pleading for mercy. It was always so _loud_ in the camp. Lysander scoffed at himself for that thought, as he turned the mask over and over in his hands. All are equal in Hyperion’s army, he thought, and his mental voice sounded derisive.  
Yes, his previous camp had been loud too. He let himself wallow in the nostalgia for a few seconds, yearning after the groups of men drinking and exchanging tall tales of conquest, the camp followers washing their clothes and singing, and even some children, always getting underfoot.  


A far cry from the noise here – barked orders, screams of agony from the bulls (always the fucking bulls, bull-head masks, metal bulls with fire underneath and the wailing always coming from the nostrils, along with the steam and the . . . smell) sobbing and wailing from anyone unfortunate enough to be left alive by the monstrous King. Yes, _monstrous_. He’d finally said it, even if it was in the privacy of his own head. In the _other_ camp, he didn’t have to hide away in a corner in case some of the other warriors (the ones who still had balls, he added resentfully) would use the weaklings for sport. That’s what he was, now, a weakling, a eunuch. Lysander’s resentment boiled over. He was in constant pain from his crushed testicles, and a more recent addition was a persistent ache in his lower back from . . . other things that had been done to him the one time he was naive enough to let his guard down.  


Lysander poked at the eye holes of the mask. Why had he come here? He was finding it hard to remember anything of his life before. What had led him to this place, this state? What had been so bad about his life that he’d thrown it away, and for this? In trying to retrace his steps he always got stuck at the mallet. Hyperion had taken one look at him, had judged him as useless, and had laughed when that creature had carved up his face. And the hammer. That had been his reward. For treason, for murder. It was what he deserved.  


What had he thought, that they were going to put him out of his misery? Hadn’t he been prepared to snivel and beg for his life? He remembered now. He’d been afraid to die! That was it. The thought struck him as hilarious, now. If he’d died then, fighting this army of horrors, he’d probably have been worthy of the Elysian Fields. Now, the state he was in, not even Hades would want him.  


He was so tired. He felt filthy, like the dirt was ingrained under his skin, and caked in it, at the same time. He couldn’t even _sleep_ here. Hidden as he was he could hear sobs and protestations from the men and boys being dragged out and shared amongst the creatures, which was what Hyperion called the worst of his warriors, the ones who wore the bull-head mask. No-one dared touch the women who’d been captured – those belonged to Hyperion alone. Not the pregnant ones, those had been tortured and slaughtered by the King, personally. And the children . . . Lysander shuddered. He didn’t want to think about the children.  


As Lysander sat, lost in his thoughts, the night passed, and soon the army started mustering towards the wall, towards the last defence. He got up and joined them, for where could he go, marked as he was? Still, as they started their march towards the gate, he found himself walking slower and slower, until the whole army had almost passed him by. He was possessed by an almost irresistible desire to turn back, to walk away. He’d never wanted this. He’d just been so afraid of death that he hadn’t considered that some things might be worse. He could go and throw himself on Theseus’s sword, of course. That would have been the _honourable_ thing to do. But when had he ever been honourable? And he felt so dirty. How could he die like this, less than a man, covered with the filth of Hyperion’s very presence?  


As he stumbled along, dragging his feet, he became conscious of eyes on him. Not the common foot-soldiers like himself, their very masks prevented peripheral vision. And maybe that had been one of the reasons they all wore them, he thought bitterly. No looking around for those in Hyperion’s army, always stare straight ahead, focussed on whatever Hyperion wanted. He couldn’t even look to the side to see who had seen his reluctance, but he could guess – one of the Minotaurs, who were tasked with maintaining discipline as well as torture, rape and slaughter. As if in a dream, he felt the swing of the hammer as it whistled towards his head and managed to turn a stumble into a headlong fall, and lay on the ground as the rest of the army passed by. People stepped onto his hands and his legs, but he didn’t move. He was sure that the Minotaur even kicked him a few times, but his performance must have been convincing, as eventually he was left alone.  


Without moving his head, he could see though one of the eyeholes as he lay on the ground. Hundreds of feet disappeared into a huge dust cloud which seemed to have swallowed the world. When he heard the explosion signalling Hyperion’s use of the weapon of the gods, Lysander got up, and, after one last look towards the army, which by now was charging towards the wall, started a slow but steady plod in the other direction. He did not look back again, even when he heard a distant rumble and the ground started shaking so strongly he nearly lost his footing. Through some magic or optical illusion as he had heard was common in the desert, it seemed to him he could see the sea in the distance. He would reach it. And at least, maybe he would be clean when he died.

Lysander walked for days. How many exactly, he was never sure afterwards. Sometimes he slept during the night, at others, he slept during the day, so he quickly lost track of time. He used the cloth of his mask to gather up dew, and sucked off the scant moisture it offered. The sweat ran down his face and stung his barely healed wounds during the day, while his whole body shivered so hard during the cold desert nights that his legs started cramping, yet he never stopped his slow steady pace. Often he had terrible dreams, that the Minotaurs had found him, that Hyperion stood at his head as he woke. But they were just dreams. Each day, or night, he woke and he was alone, something he was thankful for. He never came across any houses or villages or farms, something which he was also glad for, though at times he felt as though he was the only man left alive in the world. He was always hungry, and occasionally he found insects and grubs to eat which looked terrible and tasted worse, but which at least gave him the strength to keep walking. 

One day, just as the niggling thought came to him that his increasingly weak body could not take much more of this, he realised that he’d been hearing a strange sound for a while now. No, it wasn’t a _strange_ sound. It was one he’d known, but had forgotten, the sound of waves hitting the shore and retreating. The air smelled different, of freshness and salt, rather than pure condensed heat. He tried to look up, but his eyes had long ago swelled up in reaction to the punishing desert sun and the dust raised by his sandals as he plodded along, so he saw nothing until he stumbled down a rocky incline and splashed into a shallow inlet. As dehydrated as he was, he managed to squeeze out a few tears of joy, which cleared his eyes even as they stung unbearably on his scarred face.

He was in a little cove, not enough sand to be called a beach, but pebbles and rocks, and a floor which seemed to slope off gradually, but which he knew would drop off in a few metres. He laughed in joy and threw away the horrid rag, all which remained of the mask which Hyperion had put over his face after turning him into a monster. Lysander splashed the cold sea water over his limbs, and waded in deeper. It was his imagination, he knew, but he could feel it scouring off the dirt and the horrors, all the things he’d done and all the things that had been done to him. As the cool, sparkling waters closed over his head, he laughed again, swallowing gratefully. He could die now. He was clean again.

Lysander had never expected to wake up again, alive. But alive he was, and when he opened his eyes he saw that he was on some rocks. He started retching helplessly, as all the sea water he’d swallowed came out of him. Then he sensed rather than saw that he wasn’t alone. He just had time to look up and see that three old fishermen had surrounded him, when something hard hit his head, and blackness washed over him once more.


	2. Chapter 2

When Lysander woke up a second time, he could tell he was indoors without opening his eyes. He knew he must be in some primitive shack – he could feel a hard stone floor under him. He lay on his side, and fought the urge to look around him. Where was he, and why had he been brought to this place?

The small house was full of people – he could hear the voices of old men arguing, and occasionally he heard a female voice. Strange to hear a woman involved in such things. It slowly dawned on Lysander that they were arguing about him.

“He’s a cursed soldier from Hyperion’s army, look at his face! It is said Hyperion’s bulls scar men this way and then give them masks to wear – we have to kill him, or he’ll lead the rest of the army here, and this time no-one will survive the slaughter!”

This sounded like an elderly man who’d seen too much sorrow. Lysander couldn’t help but agree with him – and he’d wanted to die. He still did. Didn’t he?

But another voice interrupted his thoughts – a woman, this time. “He’s a young man, strong despite his current state, and we need him. You won’t allow the younger women to fish and you can’t do this on your own anymore.”

“I have heard that Hyperion’s army was defeated-“ a different voice, yet another old man. “Our young men will return and take up their nets-“ But he wasn’t allowed to finish.

“No.” Another man, this time. Lysander thought he sounded older, too, but he couldn’t be sure. How had they all escaped Hyperion’s army? His cheeks burned as he remembered his own village, where no-one had been left after he’d led the tyrant’s men there. 

“Those who weren’t killed outright by the monstrous King died in his battle. I hear that the gods themselves joined the lists and struck him down, as well as any who fought by his side. At least,” and here Lysander imagined the man shrugged, for his next words were more rueful and down to earth, “that’s what Kephalos, the pot seller, told me yesterday.”

The discussion dissolved into a hubbub of yelled arguments between those who thought Kephalos the pot seller was an old windbag pickled in wine, and those who scoffed at the thought of the gods taking a direct interest in the suffering of mortals. No-one scoffed at the gods, though, Lysander noticed. There was a lot of reverence here, and not a little fear too. Lysander guessed that, living on the bounty of the sea as they did, they couldn’t afford to alienate any gods who might be listening. Lysander himself didn’t know what he felt about the gods – he’d always joined in the rituals, and made sacrifices without really thinking about it. He remembered being very young and hearing stories about the gods disguising themselves as mortals to walk among them, but he was fairly sure he’d never seen a god. Sure, he’d heard the mountain come down behind him, but he’d never actually _seen_ how it happened. Who’s to say it wasn’t a conveniently timed . . . event. Of some kind. A comet, maybe. They’d said Theseus had been directly helped by the gods, though. This rumour had circulated at camp despite the amount of people Hyperion had killed to try and quash it. 

A high-pitched voice interrupted his thoughts. A woman, then. Young, by the sound of it. Things must be dire in this village if they allowed young women into their councils. 

“We can’t let him stay here, he will ravage us . . . I’ve heard stories . . .” She sounded terrified. The older woman answered, reassuringly. “My dear, he is incapable. The barbaric King Hyperion made sure that very few men besides himself would father children on the women of Greece.” Lysander shuddered. He was still wearing his ragged old chiton,  [1] but they must have . . . what? _Examined_ him? He sensed that the men in the room were shuffling around uncomfortably at such talk, and wished he could too. 

“He will stay with me.” This was a new voice, another old man, of which the village seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. “I will teach him to fish and we will not starve, or have to eat all our goats to survive.”

“He will refuse – why else would he have joined that damned army if not to escape honest labour?” 

“Why not ask him? He’s been awake for a while now.”

Lysander flushed, sensing that everyone in the room was staring at him now. He opened his eyes, cringing slightly at the attention. Now that he could look around him, he saw that he was in a small room which seemed to be bursting with people. He recognized the three old fishermen who had found him on the beach where he woke up – they looked very much like one would expect elderly fishermen to look: white, thinning hair, faces nut-brown, eyes surrounded by a mass of wrinkles from squinting into the sun all day. The older woman he had heard speak drew herself up, regally, and nodded to him. Her long brown hair was shot with streaks of grey and pulled back into a knot, while her chiton and himation, 2 worn and faded, were nevertheless clean. He didn’t know why he was staring at her, except maybe she reminded him of his mother. He deliberately didn’t try to look at the younger woman he’d heard speak – the last thing he needed was for these men, who seemed to hate him on principle, to think he had any designs on their younger women. 

This can’t have been a poor village, before Hyperion came, he thought. Now, well. Some of them considered _his_ arrival to be a sign of hope. Things must truly be desperate, then. Lysander tried to get up, only for one of the old men to plant his staff in his chest, forcing him back down.

“How can we trust him? How do we know he’s not just scouting for his master?” The last word was said with a sneer.

Lysander opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a croak – he dimly recalled retching what seemed like half the ocean and his throat was on fire. The older woman walked over to him, and held a cup to his mouth. Just water. They wouldn’t be wasting any wine on him.

“Slowly, now, or you’ll be sick again.”

The old man was impatient. 

“Well? Why did you come here? Speak, eunuch!” 

Lysander flushed again, this time in anger, though he held on to it, with difficulty. He could hardly deny it. He was a eunuch. That was what he was, now.

“I walked away from the final battle.” Lysander spoke carefully and with some difficulty – his voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears. He ignored the various mutterings of _coward_ , and _see? I told you-_. “I never intended to come _here_. I wanted to find the sea. I-“ 

Lysander trailed off, not wanting to admit he’d actually thought of suicide. Not that they would have disapproved – might have even given him a hand. 

“Maybe he wanted to make sacrifice to the god,” the young woman said timidly, before blushing at the sudden attention, and drawing her veil across her face.

Lysander didn’t need to ask which god she meant. This was a fishing village, after all. 

“And the god rejected him, threw him back! It’s a sign!” This was the old man with the staff, who was using it now to prod Lysander and slap him a few times on the thigh. 

The man who’d said Lysander could stay with him shook his head. “No, it’s a gift. The god hears our prayers and gives us someone to help us in our work.” 

Lysander could see various people drawing deep breaths to speak, probably to protest that a half-starved eunuch wasn’t much of a gift, and then stopping abruptly, no doubt realising the danger of loudly questioning the god’s answer to their prayers.

“My name is Hipparchus,” the old man said, helping Lysander up. “What is yours?”

Lysander opened his mouth, and closed it again. He was seized with a sudden hatred for himself, combined with pity for a village so poor that it saw his arrival as a blessing from the gods.

“Aischrion,” he answered. 

Hipparchus looked puzzled, while the other old man, the one with the staff, barked out a laugh. “The name suits,” he said, and seemed to want to add more, but the older woman stopped him with a look.

She looked at Lysander with pity in her eyes, and for a moment he hated her for that.

“I hardly think your mother gave you the name ‘Ugly’, not with that lovely golden hair,” she said, gently.

Lysander shrugged, not trusting himself to answer.

The meeting was breaking up, but the curmudgeonly old man still found time to mutter, on his way out, that the golden hair was probably the reason Poseidon spared Lysander’s life, and now they were stuck with a eunuch just because the god wanted some mortal _eromenos_ to warm his bed. The young woman covered her mouth in delighted horror, and the other men just shook their heads. Evidently they were used to such salty talk.

“Come,” said Hipparchus. “You need a bath, and a change of clothing.” He sniffed, meaningfully, and Lysander cringed. He couldn’t smell himself anymore, which was probably just as well. He wondered if taking a bath here meant dunking himself in the stream he could hear in the distance, but, following Hipparchus out of the small house they’d been in, he realised they were going to the centre of the village.

He looked around, curiously. It was late afternoon, light enough to see a rather small village, with a handful of small houses set back from a rocky coastline. He could just see a small inlet with a few fishing boats moored. In one of the natural depressions he found what he’d been looking for: a statue of Poseidon with his trident, made of marble, he was surprised to see. But then, it wasn’t a huge statue – it was bigger than a tall man, but not much bigger. 

The houses too were economically built – made of stone or brick, not big, but sufficient, and all of them neatly made and clean. No, this hadn’t been a _rich_ town before Hyperion came, but it must have been happy. Now, all the young men were gone, he could see. There were some children playing – in a village this small they wouldn’t have been cooped up in the women’s quarters, if they even had such a thing here. Lysander was glad a few children had escaped Hyperion’s hands. 

While he was lost in his thoughts, they had arrived at the village’s small bath-house – he managed to stop himself from being surprised that a village so small even had such a thing. Still, he almost embarrassed himself when he saw Hipparchus light the fire under the stones. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask where the slave was, but he bit back his words. Was that all it took, a few hours among civilised people, and he forgot where he’d spent the last weeks, living in his own filth among murderers and torturers, having become one of them? 

Hipparchus had got the fire going and grabbed a ladle for the olive oil – he gestured towards Lysander with it. “Do you want me to-“ “No! I mean, thank you, I’ll do myself.”

Lysander was about to pull the chiton over his head before the usual oiling that went before a steam bath, but then he hesitated. Though why was he hesitating? Hipparchus already knew everything about him, and so he pulled the tunic off with a sudden burst of defiance, only to see that the old man had already turned his back. Lysander wasn’t sure if Hipparchus was trying to spare his feelings or not. Either way, he was grateful. And angry, and hurt, and humiliated, which is why the next words which burst out of him were:

“I betrayed my village, you know. I killed my fellow soldiers and led Hyperion’s army there.”

Hipparchus looked up, mildly. The rocks had heated up and he had started pouring water over them, after which he threw sage and rosemary on the brazier, and soon they were enveloped in clouds of sweet-smelling steam, the scent of which brought a sudden rush of nostalgia to Lysander. Through the steam he couldn’t tell what Hipparchus was thinking, but his next words were mild in tone, though the story they told was horrific.

“My son did the same. Or tried to.” 

Hipparchus’s face tightened in pained recollection. “We argued that day. He was angry at everything, at me, at the gods, at life, even. He said he would join that monster’s army, to become his soldier, and we’d all see.” He smiled, sadly. “I never saw him again. Hypatia, the older woman you met today, had heard stories of what Hyperion’s army was doing to the people they encountered, and she managed to convince many of us to hide in the sea caves on the coast. All the old people, many of the young women and children, none of the young men. When we returned, we saw . . .”

The old man closed his eyes, rubbing them. Lysander could imagine what they had seen, but he let Hipparchus continue. 

“So many bodies – pregnant women, slaughtered like cattle. Young men, butchered in the street. Though not all of them – the women who were not with child were taken, as well as the some of the men. My son,” he paused there, “my son did not die that day. He joined Hyperion’s army, so he must have been rewarded for his betrayal . . . or not.”

Hipparchus looked at Lysander with sudden comprehension. “Was this your reward? Your face, and . . . your manhood?” Hipparchus gestured towards Lysander’s groin and Lysander wanted to cover himself. “Did my son get the same treatment?”

“I don’t know. Hyperion was insane, I . . .” he wanted to reassure the old man, but didn’t know how. Knowing Hyperion, he’d done the same thing to Hipparchus’s son, but how could he speak of such horrors to the only person who’d shown him any sympathy?

“No matter.” Hipparchus shook his head and gestured at Lysander to stop him from speaking. “It is done. My son is dead, but the village need not die too. We managed to save all the children, and some young women, so maybe young men will come here, in time.”

He lay back, soaking in the steam, and Lysander could see that he wasn’t as old as he had thought, just prematurely aged through a hard life. 

“Will you stay here, and work with us?” 

Lysander wanted to say he hadn’t known he had a choice, but that would sound churlish. They were going to clothe him and feed him – apparently death wasn’t an option if even the sea threw him back, and what else was there for him? He nodded, and Hipparchus must have seen it through the steam, as he clapped him on the shoulder, and urged him up, handing him a strigil. 3 “Come, we’d best get going – you need to eat, and sleep. Tomorrow, you learn how to fish. Though, of course, I need to know the name of the man who will be living in my house.”

Lysander flushed and looked down, pretending to pay special attention to scraping the back of his leg. He muttered, “Lysander,” not willing to continue with the self-hatred that had driven him earlier.

“ _Good_ name. Come, come . . .” 

Hipparchus rushed him into his filthy chiton, assuring him he’d have clean clothes soon, and chivvied him out of the bath-house – not a moment too soon, because a few of the men from the earlier meeting were casually dropping by, pretending not to be curious about him.

Hipparchus’s house was average-sized, with two small areas, one obviously for eating and the other with two low pallets for sleeping – Lysander wondered if he’d left his son’s bed ready for him, in case he came back. There was food ready – bread, goats’ cheese, olives and wine, which Hipparchus diluted carefully.

Lysander ate only a little, and in small bites – he knew what would happen if he wolfed everything down. 

“Now, take that filthy thing off, perhaps the women can get it clean again-“

“Burn it- if you have something else for me to wear,” Lysander spat out, dragging the hated thing over his head and shoulders and balling it up in his hands. 

Hipparchus nodded at him, seeming to understand the sudden rage which drove Lysander, who flushed again, embarrassed at his spontaneous words. These weren’t exactly rich people. But Hipparchus simply opened a chest in the corner and drew out a chiton, which, while not new, was at least clean.

“This belonged to my son. It was his second-best . . .” 

Hipparchus was looking at it as he spoke, and drawing his fingers through the folds. He looked up at Lysander, seeming to recollect where he was, and showed it to him. 

“You can wear it in the morning. But now, I think you should get some sleep.” Lysander’s eyes were already drooping closed. He managed to hold one thought in his head, how strange it was that he was in comparatively good shape after his trek through the desert and his near drowning, but even that disappeared as he let himself fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 **chiton** : a tunic made up of a rectangle of woolen or linen fabric, fastened at the shoulders by pins, sewing, or buttons. A man's chiton was usually knee-length, while a woman's usually reached the ankles.  
>  
> 
> 2 **himation** : a cloak.
> 
> 3 **strigil** : a small, curved, metal tool used in ancient Greece to scrape dirt and sweat from the body. First perfumed oil was applied to the skin, and then it would be scraped off, along with the dirt.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lysander dreams of flying through the water, of ringing in his ears, of a comely young man with a sharp grin, dark hair and flashing eyes, guiding him towards the surface. The salt stings his eyes but he looks around in awe as shoals of fish support his weakened limbs, as a dolphin nips at his tattered chiton and pulls him up. More ominous shapes move past him silently, with inexorable purpose, and the last thing he sees before his eyes close is the flat black of a shark’s eye as it too, it seems, is tasked with dragging him away from his self-administered punishment. He will remember nothing of this dream except the sensation of burning in his lungs, and the pain of drowning._

Even though he managed to get up early enough to watch the village men go fishing, Lysander was still in no physical shape to get on a boat. So one of the old men stayed behind to show him the rudiments of knotting a net, and repairing the cone-shaped cages which the fishermen used as traps underwater.

He became so engrossed in his work that the hours passed quickly until the men came back with the best catch they’d had in months. Lysander ignored the sideways glances he got as the men trooped back to the houses, and the women squabbled over the catch. As only one or two still had living husbands, dividing it up was not the straightforward matter it had been in the past, and Hypatia frequently had to intervene between them.

Hipparchus came with his share, a large, rather fierce-looking lobster. Lysander left it up to him to subdue and prepare for the pot.

“You don’t sell your fish?” Lysander had spent so many years in the army, he was no longer sure of things worked in small villages, but he was fairly certain he’d heard of fish markets and suchlike.

Hipparchus shrugged. “We have had so much loss here, that our catch has not been worth selling. We are salting and preserving fish for the winter, when it becomes more difficult to make a good catch. A couple of catches like today’s, and perhaps we will not starve this year. We have some fields on the hills, but very little grows so close to the sea.”

Lysander noticed that Hipparchus looked at him out of the corner of his eye when he mentioned that day’s exceptional catch, but he refused to catch his eye. What did he, Lysander, know about gods and their whims? He had worshipped back at his home, more to fit in than anything else. And soldiers had their own rituals of appeasement, which he’d joined.

Still, he’d never had a sign of otherworldly involvement in his affairs, and he doubted he ever would. What he’d seen in those weeks with Hyperion had disabused him of the notion of any benevolent deity watching over humans. He’d had no doubt all those slaughtered women had prayed to Artemis, to Athena, and for what? But he wasn’t prepared to put his thoughts in words. And yet he knew, despite himself, that something strange was going on.

He found himself unable to forget that last morning, in Hyperion’s camp, being woken by the impossible – the smell and sound of the sea. He should have drowned, but here he was. And now, his arrival had heralded this bounty. Was he being courted? Or was this another cruel joke being played on him? Would he be greeted with snide laughter, and more torture, before finally being allowed to die?

He realised that he was frozen in place, holding a pot which he had been asked to fill with water at the stream, and flushed. He glared at Hipparchus, and at the lobster, and stomped off. He wasn’t going to consider this anymore. Damn gods and their games. It wasn’t worth wasting any more thought on.

The next morning Lysander went on a fishing boat for the very first time. And after that, it seemed that five years passed in the blink of an eye. After, he tried hard to remember whether one particular day stood out more than the others, but it never did. He learned how to fish, and spent his days, spring and summer more than winter, on the fishing boat with Hipparchus, using the nets or the cages, and soon it became second nature for him (as killing used to be, the treacherous part of his brain informed him, the part that hadn’t forgotten his actions or forgiven them). After that first day, any boat Lysander was on got the best catch, mountains of glittering sea bream and bass, lobsters and crayfish almost fighting for the privilege of entering his cages. Once a swordfish had beached itself on the deck of his boat, and the village had even managed to do some barter for once, with enough corn and oil to last for months. No-one had made any more snide remarks about Poseidon and his predilections after that, but the sacrifices to the god were made with more conviction than ever.

Soon he was almost indistinguishable from the other fishermen in the village – the few things which set him apart were his scars, and the fact that he was the only youthful man who never took off his chiton.

A few months after his arrival the young women started showing rounded bellies, and the story circulated that they had already been pregnant when their men had been taken or killed, just not showing yet. Lysander had turned a sceptical eye on Hipparchus, who just pointed out that without babies, the village would die out. So what if the babies were born late? They would have their fathers’ names. Lysander noticed that the old men walked straighter and talked louder, but he shrugged.

Why shouldn’t they be proud that they were keeping their village alive? Where were those who made the rules about legitimacy and so on, where were they now. He immediately, with some discomfort, flashed back to himself at ten, insulting Theseus for being a bastard. He couldn’t take it back, but at least he could make up for it by turning a blind eye, when any other man would not have. Besides, what right did he have to judge? He was only alive through their goodwill, and he wasn’t going to do any repopulating any time soon.

Lysander wondered when he’d stopped looking at the hills which led down to the village, waiting for soldiers coming to make him pay for his betrayal. It never happened, which made him think it never would.

In fact, the attack came from the sea.

If he’d kept count, Lysander would have realised that day was five years to the day he’d arrived in the small fishing village. But he didn’t and when the huge wave swept him off the boat he’d been loading nets and baskets onto, it came as much of a shock to him as it was to the people watching. Time slowed down to a crawl. He realised he could understand what one of the men was shouting as he toppled into the sea.

“It’s a hand! Look, a great hand, made of water! Look, do you see?”

Then all he heard was a ringing in his ears, and he knew no more.

For the second time in his life, Lysander woke up expecting to be dead. And for the second time in his life, he was alive. But this time, he wasn’t on a sunny beach. He was in some sort of cave, which seemed to be underwater. Half of it was covered in water, like a shallow lagoon, but it was not sand which covered the bottom . . . he could hardly believe his eyes, and had to touch the smooth surface before he accepted that the floor was covered in mother-of pearl.

The ceiling was even stranger – it glowed, but not like phosphorescent algae or moss, but like a warm fire. Squinting at it, he realised it was amber – a king’s ransom of amber, and it covered the cave. The water was warm, and everything was smooth and beautiful, and it didn’t smell damp or stifling, but salty.

He looked around him and realised that there was a man sitting in the corner, watching him closely. At first he thought it was an old man, sitting on a chair, holding his staff.

“Who are you?”

Lysander’s voice was low and hoarse, and his throat burned terribly from the salt water he’d swallowed.

The man got up suddenly, and he no longer seemed old but was young and beautiful (and very naked, his mind-voice gulped), and his staff slammed down into the rock which flowed and hardened around it, and it was no longer a staff, but a trident.

“Take a wild guess,” Poseidon replied, for of course it was the god himself. Lysander closed his eyes tightly and opened them, certain he was dreaming.

Nothing had changed. He was still in this strange but beautiful cave, being watched by the god of the sea in his guise of a handsome young man, pale, with short dark hair and flashing bright eyes. The god smiled at him; a half-smile, and Lysander wondered whether this was it, this was when his punishment would come. The thoughts thronged in his head – what form would it take, and why had the god waited so long, and why had he prepared Lysander for divine retribution by . . . showering him with riches . . . and waiting for him to, at least partly, recover from his experiences. That didn’t quite add up.

When he looked up again, Poseidon was shaking his head and smiling, more openly this time.

“I don’t want to punish you, Lysander. Not unless that gives you pleasure,” he continued, and his smile grew a little more wicked than before.

Poseidon knelt down next to him, grasped his shoulders, and before he knew it Lysander was being kissed by a god. He opened his mouth, reflexively, and Poseidon’s tongue delved in his mouth, opening him up, and the pleasure was almost blinding. Lysander responded, losing himself in the kiss and the various caresses Poseidon gave him. As Poseidon’s fingers passed over his ruined groin and his scarred face, Lysander tried to shy back, ashamed of his deformities.

“Shh,” Poseidon whispered, gentling him. He grinned, looking sly. “Look what I can do!” He caressed Lysander all over, using sea water and sand to rub him gently, and wherever his fingers rested, Lysander could feel himself being healed. Finally Poseidon stroked his face, leaving cool fire in his fingers’ wake, so that Lysander knew that the horrible scars were gone. He could feel his cock stirring, something he hadn’t felt in over five years, and blushed at the thought of being so exposed to the god. Poseidon just laughed, and kissed him again, pulling him out of the shallow water towards a bed Lysander hadn’t seen before. The sheets were warm, soft and smooth, and rubbed tantalizingly against his newly healed skin as Poseidon drove deep into his mouth with his tongue, and used his fingers to open up his ass.

He flinched at this – he couldn’t help it. Memories rushed back, of the monstrous men rutting in him as he screamed and begged, all those years ago. Poseidon’s eyes filled with sadness, and he kissed Lysander’s eyes, and mouth, and stopped his caresses.

Lysander rushed to apologize – he hadn’t meant to offend, it was just-

“I understand – I can see it, all of it, and it was dreadful. Will you allow me to heal you there, too?”

Lysander was afraid, but he nodded, and when Poseidon breached him, it was nothing but pleasure. Poseidon fucked him for hours, it seemed, bringing him to orgasm over and over as he lay there, helplessly stretched around the god’s cock, until Poseidon spent in him, and stayed in him, his cock filling and stretching Lysander until he thought he would die of pleasure. He’d never thought he’d be able to bear a man’s touch again, but he did more than bear it. He yelled in ecstasy at every stroke, at every thrust, he rode and was ridden, he pleasured the god with his ass, his hands and his mouth, for hours, or days, Lysander never really could tell.

Poseidon realized Lysander needed food and drink, and so they paused, and the god would feed Lysander things sweet and savoury, wine and water, but could never keep his hands off Lysander for long before he flipped him over and entered him, a bit rougher now. Lysander had lost his fear though. He was drowning in pleasure, and the thought suddenly came to him that he would not be sad if he died like this.

“Oh, no. You’re not getting away from me that fast.” Poseidon spoke between thrusts, his balls slapping against Lysander’s ass, and he quickly reached around to grab Lysander’s cock, hard as it always was in that cave. Lysander laughed, between gasps, and moans, and came again. And again.


	4. Chapter 4

_“I don’t understand – why me? Why spare my life, when so many died?” Lysander wants to stop himself from being so sharp with the powerful immortal who could crush him like an ant. He’s not so sure that this dream accurately conveys what really happened in the cave. Perhaps it conveys what he was thinking, even as he lost himself in the bliss of the god’s embrace, or the thoughts which would come to him afterwards, as he asked himself the same question. Nevertheless, in the dream Poseidon says nothing, just smiles enigmatically, and continues caressing Lysander, who gasps at every touch, knowing that this feeling, at least, mirrored reality. Lysander hears a sound behind him. Was that a . . . hiss? He turns, only to see three women bearing down on him, limbs entwined with snakes, and as the first woman’s whip strikes him across the face, he wakes up._

Lysander woke up with a gasp. He touched his face, gingerly, but there was no lash-mark. It had been a dream, one which he still occasionally had, even though some years had passed since Lysander met the great god Poseidon in an underwater cave.

He had been awoken by Hipparchus tapping his shoulder, and as he looked out of the doorway he saw that it was a couple of hours before sunrise. Hipparchus was preparing some barley bread and a skin of diluted wine to take on the boat, and Lysander got up, glad that the dream had been interrupted before the goddesses took him apart.

In his waking hours Lysander remembered the specifics of his hours, or even days in the cave, but in dreams his fears took over and added nightmarish elements – the presence of the Erinyes being just one of several. Being awake always dissipated his fears, and he remembered instead the wonderful reality, in which he, Lysander, traitor and murderer, was loved and revered by a god. He remembered the passion with which Poseidon kissed him, the heights of ecstasy brought about by his touch, and the heat of their love-making, the memories of which still excited him.

At some point they had also talked. Lysander had mentioned that he’d been afraid of Poseidon’s divine punishment, at which the god laughed, and proceeded to kiss him until his ears rang. Poseidon had tried to reassure him that no immortal beings were hunting him, even when Lysander revealed the chilling fear which had preoccupied him for a while, which he hadn’t even wanted to admit to himself.

“In my old village, we often spoke of . . . the Kindly Ones . . .”

Lysander’s voice had cracked at that point – he knew that he had done things which ensured their attention many times over. Their curse would follow him for the rest of his life, and nothing he did or said would appease them. Poseidon had shushed him, stroking his hair like he was a child, and he remembered wanting to hide in his arms, forever, if need be.

“Don’t worry about them – they have so much retribution to seek, they will be glutted before they even think about you. Besides, you are atoning for your sins, here. Aren’t you?”

Lysander thought about it. He supposed that the arrogance and pride of his previous life had been taken from him (in ways he didn’t want to remember), and living a humble life might be regarded as a form of atonement. But would it be seen as such by three angry and vengeful goddesses? Not vengeful, he corrected himself hurriedly. They brought justice, that’s what he’d meant. You never knew who might be listening.

“Besides, no-one may harm you.”

Poseidon looked quite stern at this point.

“Do you know why?”

Lysander wasn’t sure, not completely, but he decided to make a leap of faith.

“I belong to you. I am yours.”

Poseidon’s brilliant smile lit up the dim cave, and the rest of his words were spoken into Lysander’s mouth. And so Lysander accepted these feelings, which had been alien to him in the past: of belonging, of being wanted, being treasured, being loved.

This strange bliss sustained Lysander through the dream-like voyage back through the sea to the fishing village, through the amazed and shocked reactions to his transformation, and was with him even now, as he prepared for the daily work that had become an intrinsic part of his life. It hadn’t changed much, even after he had come back to the village superficially a new man. No-one except for Hipparchus knew that his facial wounds weren’t the only ones that had been healed. He had been known for his modesty and shame, so he felt no impulse to change that now.

Unlike in his dreams, in which his idyll with Poseidon was cut short by his intrusive fears, the reality had been interrupted in a different way. He was still saddened when he remembered Poseidon telling him that he did not think they could meet again, in the near future.

“Lord Zeus is being . . . difficult. We can no longer interact with mortals as we once did.”

Lysander smiled as he recalled deciding to take what he could in the time they had left, and pulling Poseidon’s head down to his for a last kiss, which turned into many kisses, and more besides. He smiled again, sitting on the boat, mending his nets. Maybe one day he would see Poseidon again – until then, his memories would sustain him.

In the years that had passed, young men had started appearing in the village, after travelling market-traders had spread the word that there was a living to be made in a small village with many widows. The only drawback was that Lysander did not exactly fit in this picture, having no wife or family to call his own.

Once his scars were gone, the young men only saw another rival, and at times it was hard for Lysander to persuade them that he had no interest in any woman, or man for that matter. Often it took two or three visits from the village elders to persuade the incomers that whatever mystery lay in Lysander’s past (which was never talked about, no matter how insistent the incomers became) or present, the fact remained that the village had never been so prosperous in human memory. And that forcing Lysander to leave would be a very bad idea, for everyone.

Most of the young men had no objections to this situation. Soon, children of their own were born, strengthening their ties to the strange little village which had survived while so many others had been destroyed by the madness of King Hyperion. These men saw Lysander’s kindness to Hipparchus, a frail old man who he treated like a father, they saw how he worked harder than anyone else, how he was courteous to everyone, and seemed in some way thankful; for what, in particular, it was never made clear. His only strangeness was his devotion to the old statue of the god in the inlet, which he visited every day, with sacrifices and prayers. And that was not so strange, in a fishing village. And so the incomers looked to their own families, deciding that one strange man in an entire village was not so terrible, after all.

One man, however, would not be persuaded.

Kopris felt that he had somehow been cheated of what he had been promised; by whom, he could not say. To him, his wife was not the most attractive in the village; her young son disliked him on sight, and worst of all, after a year, she had never quickened with his own child.

To the others, Lysander among them, he just seemed as sullen as he had been since he first came to their village. He did not confide in his wife, as he was used to the company of men. He could not confide in the other men, his age mates, who were content with their lot. He could not talk to the village elders who, he had been made to understand, had suffered greatly in the past, and who would not be interested in his discontent.

And so the feelings of frustration and resentment grew inside him until the day came once more when their fish was to be taken to market by mule-cart. The town was a few days from the village, but the fish would keep, having been dried or salted down. Kopris offered to make the journey, the first time he had done so, and even though she did not show it, his wife dared to hope that he was finally getting used to life in their village.

A week later, Lysander saw a young boy setting out for the hills, following the village goats, who knew the way to their favourite grazing ground, and were eager to get there. The boy could barely keep up with them, and as he hurried up the rocky path, he had a wave and a smile for Lysander, who waved back. As Lysander walked towards the quay, he saw the boy’s mother standing in her doorway, looking anxiously after her son as he went in the direction she’d hoped her husband would be coming from. Lysander nodded at her and she seemed to need to make some form of conversation.

“His step-father should be back today.” She sounded worried. In fact, her husband was a few days overdue, and Lysander hoped that the other women had not filled her ears with gossip. The old men had been doing enough of that, with more than one remarking, in Lysander’s earshot, that maybe Kopris had simply sold the fish instead of bartering and had walked away with their one mule and cart.

He tried to smile in a reassuring manner, conscious of the fact that there were probably more eyes on him than he could see, whose owners would be all too happy to tell her husband, when he came back, that “handsome Lysander” had been smiling and chatting with his wife.

Even though he felt ungrateful when he had such thoughts, he sometimes wished Poseidon had left him his facial scarring. No-one besides Hipparchus really understood why he hadn’t tried for a wife after his return from the cave, and perhaps Lysander didn’t really understand it himself. Poseidon hadn’t forbidden him a wife, or even a lover, but Lysander didn’t want anyone else. Those hours in the cave had filled him with such contentment and joy that he only had to think back on them to feel happy again. And when the loneliness became too much, he tended to the statue and looked out to sea, hoping against hope to see a merry face looking back at him. He swam sometimes, when they weren’t fishing, enjoying the feelings of buoyancy and freedom, and if he sometimes thought he heard a voice saying, “Wait for me”, he wasn’t telling anyone.

Lysander marshalled his thoughts.

“I’m sure he will be.” He smiled again. “His delay is probably a result of his mastery of haggling, to get the most goods for our fish!”

Ianthe smiled back at him, happier now.

“I sent Eryx with the goats – maybe he will meet his st- his father on the way!”

She sounded so hopeful that Lysander just nodded and went on his way. He was careful to avoid showing his real thoughts – that if the boy Eryx met his step-father on the way home there would be no happy conversation, but only dark thoughts and sullen sniping. The elders were not happy with Kopris, but felt they could not interfere as nothing overt had occurred. Lysander wished he could take it on himself to tell the man to count his blessings, to adapt or leave, but who was he to take such an action? He had not been born in the village, and this simple fact would make him an incomer, a virtual stranger, for a very long time.

They would not go fishing that day – there were high clouds in the distance and being unsure of the weather, devoted the day to repairing their nets. Long afterwards, Lysander would believe that the god had been watching over him even then. For at about midday, hours before the boy should have returned from the pastureland, a strange commotion drew the fishermen to the other end of the village, where they witnessed a bizarre scene.

Lysander watched in horror as Eryx, carrying the lead goat in his arms, slipped and slid down the rocky path, with all the other goats bleating worriedly and following. He was out of breath, and struggled to speak, but one word was terrifyingly clear.

“Soldiers!”

Lysander felt a sudden jerk under his feet, as if the world had moved sideways and then righted itself again. He tried to speak, but his mouth felt dry, and he was afraid that if he opened his mouth again only a croak would come out. He looked around him, willing someone to take over, to take charge, but all eyes were on him, some accusatory, others pleading. Ianthe pushed her way through the crowd, and once again Lysander felt horrified, this time at the thought of common soldiers, and what they would do to women who walked unveiled in the street, fearless.

“Did you not meet your father on the way?”

The boy answered her with a defiant look.

“He is not my father!”

He relented at her pleading look and continued.

“He is with them, the soldiers, I mean. He is driving the cart, and he talks and laughs with them. I think-“

Here Eryx hesitated. He exchanged looks with Lysander, who gave him a little nod. The time for kind lies had passed. Kopris had betrayed them all, and if they were to survive the day, they would have to show a united front. Kopris was one of them no longer.

The boy cleared his throat.

“I think he brought them here. He pointed towards the wider path. I only arrived before them because I took the goat path. They are just behind that ridge.”

Everyone turned to look in that direction, as if they hadn’t seen the ridge every day of their lives. Lysander realised that he had to do something, or else they would all stand there, frozen like puppets, occasionally jerking from side to side, unable to act, until the soldiers rode down into the village. He noticed that Hypatia had hurried up to them, drawn by the commotion, and she must have heard the boy’s words.

“Hypatia, Ianthe, gather the women and children, and take them to-“

He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say next. Was there even time to get to the caves?

“We won’t get to the caves in time,” Hypatia interrupted.

“But will they be out of sight? I can try to keep their attention here, for a while. It’s me they want, anyway.” Lysander tried to keep any hint of self-pity out of his voice. These people did not deserve the wrath that was headed his way. He, on the other hand, did.

“They can’t have you!”

Lysander sighed. Hipparchus had been ill, that winter, and had not fully recovered. He spent most of his days lying in the shade, looking out to sea, waiting for Lysander to return. He’d hoped Hipparchus had been sleeping so deeply that he hadn’t noticed the commotion, but that was not to be. He noticed that Hypatia had taken the opportunity to run off, dragging a protesting Ianthe along, followed by Eryx, who was still carrying the lead goat. He hoped she’d know to take the hill-paths, behind the statue of the god. Even if the women and children didn’t reach the caves by the time the soldiers arrived, they’d be out of sight.

Hipparchus was leaning heavily on the staff he’d started to use recently. All the other elders avoided his angry looks – they were clearly not prepared to sacrifice themselves for someone who was, essentially, a stranger to them. It would take more than the odd decade for Lysander to be part of the village, something he knew very well. The other young men milled around uncertainly. Separated from their wives and children, they were clearly unsure of what, if anything, they should contribute. Lysander had kept his eyes on the one who clearly felt he should lead, and who seemed to be working himself up to suggest that Lysander should be offered up to the soldiers. Seeing as that was Lysander’s own intention, he just wanted to say it himself, as Hipparchus was clearly going to attack anyone who even hinted at this solution. As he’d been having coughing fits since his illness, something which had been worrying Lysander more than he cared to admit, he was afraid that any outburst would set Hipparchus off again.

“Hipparchus, you must let me speak with them.”

Lysander took the old man by the shoulders and shook him, gently. Hipparchus had tears in his eyes, but blinked fiercely, unwilling to let them fall.

“They will kill you!”

“Am I not worth the village? Had I not come here, you wouldn’t be in danger.”

“Had you not come here, we would have starved to death that winter!”

Hipparchus still sounded angry, but he’d started to look resigned, too. Lysander knew he wasn’t stupid or senile, and there was no other way this could go. He only hoped the soldiers would take him and leave the village untouched. He wasn’t sure whether Kopris knew about the caves, though. It was as good a time as any to pray, and he wished he was closer to the sea, as he prayed desperately that Ianthe hadn’t been so trusting as to tell her husband about the village’s most important secret. Lysander himself did not trust in the good nature of soldiers. He should know, he’d been one once.

As though his very thoughts had called them into being, the first soldiers crested over the ridge. They were mostly infantry, with a mounted Regiment commander. One of the hoplites was walking the commander’s spare horses, and the others were marching along Kopris’s cart, chatting with him, happy of the slow pace. Lysander could not recognize the commander under his helmet, but he had no doubt he would. Why else would he bring fifty soldiers to a poor fishing village? This was someone whose brother, whose father he had wronged, and it was time to pay for his crimes.

Hipparchus tried one last time.

“Hide, Lysander – they have no reason to attack us!”

“They will have reason – you have given me refuge all these years. Best you tell them you knew nothing.” Lysander sighed, struck by a sudden thought – he should have died during the battle. These people did not deserve such a punishment. He thought again of Poseidon, and wished he had a way of asking the god to protect his people, but there was no time. The soldiers had arrived.

Lysander took a few steps forward, trying to separate himself from the rest of the villagers. He noticed, from the corner of his eyes, that some of the men had brought rakes and scythes, hammers, chisels and other implements. He sighed, inwardly – the soldiers would mow them down within seconds. It must not come to this, he decided, and walked, trying to seem calm, towards the soldiers.

The regiment commander stopped in front of Lysander and dismounted, taking off his helmet. Lysander did not recognize the man, but it had been almost a decade. He swallowed, nervously.

“I am Lysander,” he said.

“You betrayed your village. You brought soldiers there. You joined Hyperion’s army.”

“Yes.”

Lysander could hear protesting begin behind him. The elders had changed their minds, it seemed, and were listing the things he had done for the village, the way he had helped them with no expectation of reward except food and a place to sleep. The hoplites started moving towards them and Lysander grew desperate.

“No! I am here, take me – they have done nothing, I deserve your wrath, but not them.”

The commander gave him a contemptuous look, strode forward and delivered a backhand that sent Lysander to his knees on the stony ground. He grabbed Lysander by the hair and pulled his head back, studying his face.

“Where are Hyperion’s marks? You are as I remember, only older. How is it that you are unblemished, while all the others that we killed had been turned into horrors?”

“Sorcery! Evil magics!”

Lysander wished, not for the first time, that they had turned Kopris away when he’d first come to their village.

The commander pushed him face down into the ground. Lysander’s lip was bleeding, and as he lay there, staring at the sand which was soaking up his blood, it seemed to him that the last years had been a fever dream, and he was there again, at Hyperion’s last battle, waiting for the Minotaurs to finish him off. When he tried to get up, a foot landed on his neck and kept him in place.

“You promised me! You promised I could have the pick of any woman.” Would that son of a dog not be quiet, Lysander thought. It seemed the commander shared his opinion, if not enough to spare the villagers.

“Enough, cur! You will get your reward soon enough.”

Lysander could hear scuffling close by, and a few slaps as the hoplites kept the villagers in check, but at least no-one had drawn swords. Yet, his treacherous mind supplied. Who knew what they would do to give Kopris his ‘reward’?

And yet, he could feel something strange happening under him, pinned to the ground as he was. Had there been . . . a rumble? Movement?

“You two, tie his hands and put him in the cart.”

Lysander stumbled as he was pulled upright and held firmly in between two hulking foot-soldiers. Kopris’s protests were loud and immediate, and through the sand in his eyes he could see the contempt in the commander’s face.

“Did you think you were going to stay here with her, whatever mangy bitch you chose? Go and pick your woman, fool.”

“No!” Lysander knew he was just adding to the beating he was going to get very soon, but he couldn’t stop himself. “They have done nothing wrong, spare them!”

The commander made a sign for the hoplites to hold him steady, and punched Lysander in the stomach. As he doubled over in pain, one of the men pulled his head up by the hair, and the commander elbowed him in the face. As he coughed and retched, more droplets of blood hit the sand.

“No one will be harmed, and whatever woman he chooses will soon become accustomed to her lot. Is it not a small price to pay for remaining unscathed after harbouring such a monster, one woman?”

Lysander could see the commander’s smirk through the blurring in his eyes, even as he realised that he was the monster being referred to. It had been a long time since he thought of himself as a monster.

The commander moved closer and murmured into Lysander’s ear.

“We still have those bulls your King used to discipline men in. Your last hours, maybe even days, will be spent in one of them. A fitting punishment, don’t you think?”

Lysander looked past him, trying not to show the panic and horror caused by the commander’s word, and found that he could see Kopris striding confidently into the village, sure, by his gait, that he would soon be dragging his reward out by the hair, if necessary.

Except Kopris stumbled. Which didn’t seem strange to Lysander – the small stones on the path were tricky enough, even for the sure-footed. But then the other villagers started to move, as well as the cart, and Lysander, and the soldiers holding him back. The earth was shaking, and as if terrified by that fact, the commander’s three horses lost their minds. The most magnificent one, a big grey, pulled free of the soldier holding the reins and reared up, lashing out madly with its hooves, landing a couple of blows that would surely have killed the soldier if not for his helmet.

“It is the god! You will all be punished for what you have done!”

Lysander was glad to hear that Hipparchus had not been in any way intimidated by the soldiers, even though a soldier immediately turned around and punched him to the ground. Lysander felt a sudden wave of rage crash over him, and he struggled like a madman.

“Leave him alone! He could be your grandfather!”

The ground had stopped rumbling, but the horses were still stamping, and the big grey kept everyone a fair distance away. Which was why everyone, except Lysander and the commander, missed the enormous figure striding out of the sea, wielding a trident many feet high, and bringing with him a wall of water which crashed over houses and men alike, but somehow only swept the soldiers off their feet, leaving the villagers unharmed.

The soldier who had hit Hipparchus landed badly on one arm, and even Lysander winced as he heard the crack. But all noise was drowned out when Poseidon spoke.

“WHO DARES? WHO DARES?”

The voice was so loud Lysander could feel it reverberate in his bones. The only soldiers still on their feet covered their ears and sank to the ground, in fear as well as pain. Kopris became mad with terror, and tried to run to his cart, but a wave lifted him bodily to a height of twenty feet and dashed him to the ground, where he lay still.

The commander stood his ground, Lysander gave him that. His grip on Lysander’s arm tightened, and if he shook a little, Lysander understood that being faced with such power for the first time was a chastening experience. The huge head turned to him, and one enormous eye closed and opened again. Lysander had to stop himself from smiling back, but thankfully no-one else seemed to have noticed the furious sea-god winking at him.

“Lord, we did not know he was under your protection-” the commander began. His voice was as steady as could be expected, under the circumstances, but Poseidon was not mollified.

“RELEASE HIM!”

The words were so loud Lysander imagined they were written across the sky in huge granite blocks. The soldiers still on each side of him immediately let him go, even though their commander had given no such order.

“This village is under my protection! None shall harm whoever resides here! None shall harm what is MINE!”

The last word forced them to their knees again.

“But lord, he is a traitor, and a murderer!”

Lysander was starting to admire this commander, in spite of his intense desire to end his life. He wondered, sadly, which of the commander’s relatives he’d betrayed.

The huge figure turned to them and said no more, but the commander seemed to hear something, as he winced, as if the sounds in his head were too loud to be borne. He looked at his men meaningfully, and they all started moving towards him, leaving the villagers where they stood, or lay. The horses had calmed down, and the commander quietly instructed some men to take their reins, except for the big grey, which he would ride.

About to swing himself into the saddle, the commander hesitated, as his hand gripped the horse’s mane, and tightened convulsively. He looked up into Poseidon’s face. The god inclined his head graciously, and Lysander didn’t know what it meant, only that the commander understood and nodded. He swung himself into the saddle, patting the horse’s neck. It suddenly dawned on Lysander that the commander had been asking whether a sacrifice was necessary – it obviously was not, and Lysander was glad of that. He wanted no living creature to die for his sake.

The soldiers left the village at a quick trot, and soon the only people in sight were the villagers, and Lysander. And of course Poseidon, legs like enormous tree-trunks, sea-weed entwined around his limbs, eyes staring into the distant horizon. Lysander looked up and that huge bearded face smiled down at him, an enormous hand reaching down, a thumb passing over his face and healing his cut lip, his grazed scalp.

A moan from the group of elders distracted him from Poseidon’s hypnotic gaze, and he realized that they were clustered around the fallen figure of Hipparchus, who lay where he had fallen when the soldier punched him. Lysander raced to his side, and one of the other old men turned to him.

“I think a rib might be broken. Bastard didn’t have to hit him that hard.”

Before Lysander could do anything, the gasps from the crowd alerted him to Poseidon’s approach. Well, not really an approach, he told himself. Poseidon only had to turn and reach down, and his hand passed gently over the old man’s chest, healing as it went. As Lysander watched, the old man took one deep breath, and then another, with more confidence – he nodded at Lysander, who, for the first time that day, gave in to his emotions and crushed Hipparchus to his chest.

“Come, come,” Hipparchus said, patting him on the shoulder awkwardly. “We are alive and well, no harm done.” But his eyes shone too, and his hands shook.

Lysander helped him to his feet, and the villagers started moving away from him, muttering something about seeing to the nets, even though no-one had been fishing, that day. One of them glanced at Lysander and then looked upwards, as if to remind him of something he’d forgotten. Or someone. Oh, yes. Poseidon was still standing there, like a huge statue. Only his head moved, as he looked over the ridge where the soldiers could probably still be seen, from his vantage point. Poseidon looked down at him, and his eyes became kind again.

“Follow me. We need to converse.”

Poseidon’s voice did not boom so loud anymore – it was more like a rumble of distant thunder. His steps were huge as he strode towards his statue in the inlet, but he seemed to diminish with every step, until, waiting for Lysander in the small cove, was the merry youth who had greeted him in the cave.

Lysander had passed the villagers who were gathered in groups discussing what had happened, except for the young husbands who’d gone to the caves to tell the women the danger was over. They’d had to draw lots to decide who to leave behind to bury Kopris. It was not fair to leave such an onerous duty to his wife, who had been as much fooled and cast aside as the rest of them.

The elders were the only ones to greet Lysander and meet his eyes – he guessed it was because the younger men were eager to forget all that had occurred, and would simply remember that a lucky earthquake and high tide had saved them from destruction. They would sacrifice to Poseidon in thanks, but would prefer to forget about sixty-foot gods striding out of the sea.

As he hurried towards the inlet, he had to run a gauntlet of backslapping and praise. One of the old men had had a couple of amphorae of wine hidden away, and a cup was pressed into his hand as he hurried along. He was glad of it – he hadn’t liked the look in Poseidon’s eyes as he stared after the soldiers and their commander, and maybe an offering of wine would placate him for a while. And also an offering of his body, though Lysander’s honesty won out here – he’d missed the god, and after almost dying he wanted so badly to feel Poseidon’s arms around him.

As he splashed into the inlet, he was immediately enveloped in Poseidon’s embrace, the cup was taken from his nerveless fingers and put into a concave depression, and he was summarily stripped and kissed breathless.

“They would have killed you, they would have taken you from me . . .”

Lysander’s ears rang from lack of breath, but he heard what Poseidon said between frantic kisses. He stroked the lustrous curls and kissed the god back.

“But you saved me – you saved everyone-“

“They dared touch you, touch this village,” Poseidon interrupted, enraged again. His moods were as mercurial as the weather out at sea, Lysander thought. “I will curse them!”

“My love,” Lysander answered, feeling very daring. “Please spare them.” He knew he could not say ‘no’ to the sea-god, but perhaps a request would do.

“Why do you plead for them? “ There was genuine puzzlement on Poseidon’s features, and Lysander struggled to come up with a way to explain himself to such a powerful being. They are simple mortals, he wanted to say, they see injustice and think revenge will make them feel better. Yes, they wanted to kill me horribly, but these were the lessons Hyperion taught them – that mortals needed to make their own justice, and not rely on the gods anymore. That mortals could be as capricious and thoughtless as the gods, and cause as much pain. Though Lysander knew he could not utter the last thought. He did love Poseidon, after all.

“I am safe, in your arms.” He punctuated his words with kisses, knowing that Poseidon would not resist him. “The village is safe. They will not return. And we will be more careful about who we admit in the future.” Lysander was determined to accomplish this by involving himself with the elders, in the days to come. They would not have to go through this again, with different soldiers, and another commander that he’d wronged in his past.

“I was almost too late,” Poseidon insisted.

Lysander smiled, fondly. “You would have been able to find me anywhere.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “But rage fills me when I think of their hands on you.”

“How did you know, anyway?” Lysander was still puzzled about this. Poseidon looked shaken, as much as an immortal being could.

“Your blood hit the stones – the very bones of the earth called out to me, telling me to save my love.”

Poseidon declaimed happily, and Lysander smiled at his joy. So dramatic, his divine lover.

“There is something you wish to ask me; I can see it in your eyes.”

Lysander played for time by grasping the cup of wine and offering it to Poseidon. The god smiled at him wickedly, and poured the wine over his chest, where he proceeded to lick it off, paying special attention to Lysander’s nipples, which were soon as erect as other parts of his body.

Between gasps of pleasure and deep kisses it was difficult to keep his question in mind, and soon Lysander was simply lost in ecstasy. At one point, he protested that surely the women and children would be able to see them as they came back from the caves.

“I will envelop us in a glamour,” Poseidon said grandly, “and hide us from their sight.” The deep kisses continued, and soon Poseidon was caressing him in more intimate ways.

“Will you really hide us?”

“No. They need to learn who you belong to.”

The god smirked, and turned Lysander onto his stomach. He sighed, pillowing his head on his folded arms, and let himself be lost in pleasure.

Hours later, they were lying side by side on the warm rocks, which were still heated from the afternoon sun. The promised storm had not arrived, and the air was comfortable enough to dry them off. Lysander ached pleasantly from their exertions, and had almost forgotten the unpleasant events earlier that day.

Poseidon was dropping soft kisses on his neck, nipping gently at his lips from time to time, when he pulled back and stared into Lysander’s eyes.

“Ask your question.”

Lysander knew what he meant.

“What did you say to the commander, when he called me a traitor and a murderer?”

“How do you know I said anything?”

“He did not seem the kind of man to leave without an answer, even if he was being told to do so by a god.”

Poseidon stroked Lysander’s hair as he replied, perhaps to take the sharp edge off his words.

“I showed him your suffering. I showed what Hyperion did to you. I told him what would be your punishment here.”

“Which is?”

Poseidon wouldn’t meet his eyes at first, but then looked deep into them as he continued.

“You live here, far away from the citadels of power, in a small forgotten village, as a poor fisherman, who once was a soldier. There will be no great feats here, or quests, just daily hard labour until the day you die.” Here Poseidon paused, and seemed to consider his words as he went on. “There will be no wife for you, no children, no sons. Your line ends with you. But . . . I did not tell him that you are my beloved, and that I will always be by your side.”

Lysander grinned so wide his face was aching.

“My love,” he gasped, and could not stop himself from grabbing the god’s face and kissing him deeply. Poseidon laughed in between kisses, praising what he called Lysander’s new found confidence.

“Where is that shy boy I seduced in an underwater cavern?” He laughed merrily, and pulled Lysander on top of him.

Lysander smiled and kissed his way down Poseidon’s chest, and then up again to his lips.

“Will you truly be by my side till the day I die?” Lysander wondered at his own daring, asking such a thing of an immortal being.

Poseidon nibbled at his ear and whispered.

“And beyond, love. I will not let you go. Resign yourself to being mine, forever.”

And so Lysander did.

* * *

And one day, perhaps, after many years had passed, Lysander went to sleep for the last time, and woke up in a field of flowers with the sea shining in the distance, and a familiar figure waiting for him on the distant shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Erinyes,_ which means The Kindly Ones, was what ancient Greeks called The Furies - the three goddesses of vengeance and retribution, punishing murderers in various ways.
> 
> I belong to the school of thought which believes that they were called 'Kindly' as a form of self-defence - to call them by their true name would risk bringing their wrath down on you.
> 
> Poseidon, as well as being the god of the sea, was also the god of earthquakes. One of the animals associated with him was the horse.


End file.
